Le Ossa
by WeLcOmE2pArAdIsE
Summary: That day, Ahim learned the sound of bones. :JoeAhim:
1. I

Disclaimer: I do not own this series, or any of the characters, obviously.

So my dear friend AngesRadieux has been with me since the beginning for this two-shot. Originally it was to be a one-shot, but for stylistic purposes I changed my mind. This is my first foray into the Gokaiger fandom, and I am up-to-date with the episodes. And if you have never read anything of mine before, I might suggest at least taking a peek into other fanfictions. I pretty much detest mindless fluff and hate spoon-feeding plots, and like to have misleading details. My penchant for Joe/Ahim is not steadfast - and there are sprinkles of other pairings throughout (so no unnecessary 'shipping!panic, please).

Edit: 10/31 - Happy Halloween, everybody! I realized that the scene breaks I entered a couple days ago are still /not/ showing up. Cross your fingers and hope they stay this time!

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><p><strong>Le Ossa<strong>

_ That day, Ahim learned the sound of bones._

**I.**

Snap, crackle, crunch.

He lands in a heap of limbs bent horribly wrong. Somehow the sound snatches her delicate ears and hangs on, a grip of terror that may be this man's only saving grace.

She knows even humans should not make those sounds. Logic deserts her promptly and without remorse, and she does not make an effort to retrieve it. The sword in her hand drops, and it falls forever – seconds slow, thicken, and bleed while the fight continues, and she is lost in the dust.

_Clatter._

Tatters of red fabric fall slowly, silent crimson snow. Ordinarily she would cry out but she cannot breathe. Not while she stares into this man's eyes, a middle-aged man with a scruffy chin. A man being kicked as a stray dog takes abuse, rolling over and over, the source of a dizzying symphony of crunching, shattered ribs. Metal makes the rhythm; it is a mere Goumin with a towering temper and a desire to see the man fall from the sheer precipice.

_Crunch. _

"AHIM!"

The shout is lost to the wind in her ears as she sprints toward the minion. Vaguely, she acknowledges the searing heat, throbbing from her shoulder to her elbow. It is difficult to acknowledge. And still, time languishes behind.

Ahim nearly closes her eyes as her fist connects with the soldier's gaudy metal helmet: Her knuckles explode in pain, but in a removed, disconnected frame of reality. All she has eyes for is the man teetering dangerously at the edge of the precipice, a meager pile of flesh, blood, and

-_broken bones_. Her thoughts are those of startled deer – scattered. A second too late she has waited, for the minion has recovered. She has time for only one weak punch, which it parries and then grabs her by the arm, that same burning arm. It roughly swings her around and to the ground, and pivots to deliver one final kick into the human's crumpled rib cage.

"NO!" Ahim screeches, and throws her body weight, what little she has, at the knees of the Goumin; it topples over her as she stretches her arm as far as possible, to grasp the human's limb.

She is flat on the ground, but her injured arm cannot support him. He is on the verge of unconsciousness, about to become dead weight.

His eyes bore into hers – they are glittering coals.

"Sir," she whispers, "Sir, you will be all right now!"

Explosions breed and multiply in her torso, and she is waiting for the grotesque crunches of broken bones; thankfully, she cannot hear it over her own screams.

Dangling above an endless drop, the man closes his eyes.

She hears a disturbing, dull _pop _– he falls a few inches yet she has not moved. As her vision begins to blur and haze, her fingers undulate of their own accord.

And as she succumbs, he falls forever.

* * *

><p>A hazy five minutes elapses, in which all Ahim can remember is faces and faraway sounds.<p>

Luka's shrill voice fills the air to its brim; it is everywhere, all at once, echoing. "Ahiiiiim come on! Stay with me!"

She wanted to say she was fine.

"Someone needs to set her shoulder right."

Pause.

"I don't know if – I don't think I can! I – I'm not – I'm a mechanic, not a doctor!"

"I'll do it. Hold her still, Luka."

"She's not even stirring!" Luka shot back. Her voice is cruel and frigid as ice. Still, Ahim felt her left side rise and steady. A hand grips her upper arm and an arm settles behind her neck and head.

"Well, she's about to. Put another arm behind her!" An angry, snappish command.

Ahim sharply inhales and chokes, the desperate breath of a swimmer breaking the surface. As her eyes flutter open, stinging, her nose is inches away from Joe's.

Pain begins to seep into her marrow, into her bones. He knows and distinctly swallows as his grip on her arm tightens – his face is etched with lines of pain, his lips drawn thin.

He nods at Luka, who also grips tighter.

Without pretense, Joe sets his chin on top of Ahim's head, her face cradled in the hollow of his collarbone.

"I'm sorry, Ahim," he murmurs.

Luka's horrified wail could not mask the sound of the dull pop that cut through Ahim's haze of pain – it was an echoing shot in darkness.

And so the princess knew the sound of bones.

* * *

><p>Later, Ahim learns that her captain's coat was torn to tatters and shreds, left strewn across the battlefield as a glaring testament. Luka tells her sister tales of woe: Of the man's fall and various injuries, and the villains' escape.<p>

Even later, Ahim sits alone in the dark, and the others have long bid her good night. With her arm in a sling and the sounds reverberating in her mind, she does not dare sleep.

A light flares from nowhere; Joe's expression softens when he sees her, silent without a stir.

His limp is slight, but she cannot stop herself. "Joe-san, your leg."

He crosses the room slowly, quieter than usual. No boots. The sofa dips with his wearied weight.

"Don't worry about me," he says gruffly. A pause, and then he adds, "please."

"Is everyone mostly uninjured?" she inquires.

Joe turns his head slowly, and she blinks in surprise as he fixes his gaze on her. Seconds pass, melting into surprisingly comfortable minutes, and still he does not answer. Dancing candlelight paints shadows on his skin, fills his deep, dark eyes with the warm glow of flame. He watches her watch him. How her eyes manage to be so sincerely concerned, he does not know.

"Yes." His late response shatters the silence. "We were fine. Your injuries were my concern."

She flinches.

"Ahim?"

Her smile could bring forth the dawn; too bad it was fake.

"Yes?"

"Stop."

Ahim drops her gaze to the floor, to the lights and shadows playing tag on the wooden deck. To her tiny feet still clad in boots and the ivory, sick skin teasing her from beneath the hem of an equally pale dress. Exhaustion tugs at every limb and joint, weighing down her mind.

"I also do not want the crew worrying about me," she whispered. "I was a distraction-"

"No," Joe interrupted brusquely. "To be frank, Ahim, we were already losing. We decided to fall back. Don't blame yourself for this loss."

Pause.

"Tea?"

Ahim looks startled that he has asked, but manages a weak smile and nods. "Yes, thank you, Joe-san."

In minutes, he sets a steaming teacup on a small table in front of her and sinks into the couch again. It is not like him to relax or even, really, make so much use of the furniture. She hears his weary sigh.

"Tell me if, erm, this tastes all right," He looks away deliberately, embarrassed. "I'm no expert on tea."

"It's really very simple," Ahim giggled, and reached for her cup – only to draw back, a breath caught fast in her throat.

Joe takes a tentative sip and tilts his head slightly, contemplating the taste as Ahim winces, lifting her arm from the sling. Leaning forward with the most grace she can muster, her fingers find the hot cup and hold on for dear life. Tremors violently embrace her hand and arm, forcing pain through her shoulder –

_Clink!_

She is folding her hands in her lap as he turns around. _She's fast_, he thinks. However, her face says it all. Her nose wrinkles as if there is an unwelcome scent in the air, but really, she is trying not to make a sound. Without expression, she reaches for it with her left hand, a steely gaze in her eyes. Her determination is absolute; fingers cradling the cup, she will not settle for anything less. Only her lips betray distress.

He inhales as if preparing to speak, but decides against it.

Despite her awkward grip she continues to bring it closer. Her unbending tenacity is as straight-laced as her posture, but it will not serve her well. She readjusts her grip but the smooth china slips from her fingers–

And Joe leans forward almost lazily as it lands in his outstretched and waiting hand. No shattering, no sounds, and no time for her to move a muscle.

A sound escapes, barely more than a muffled whimper.

"I shouldn't forget to be a gentleman," he sighed, moving closer until his shoulder touched her uninjured left one.

"You do not have to-"

"And I'm not doing it because I have to. As far as I'm concerned, you're a pirate, not a princess. That doesn't mean that someone can't take care of you, though."

Ahim is thunderstruck hearing so many words from Joe's lips – after all, that may have been more than he said all of the previous week. He clears his throat, ruffled, and amends, "Help you, I mean."

So she lets him awkwardly hold the tiny cup, his fingers slightly clumsy; he places his hand underneath her left to steady it. He gently presses the cup toward her lips, but she insists on placing her fingers correctly no matter how uncomfortable it feels. It takes him a second to realize she is adjusting his placement as well, and his trademark smirk emerges. Always proper. Every sip seems painstaking but he notices her absolute refusal to let him hold it. Silence. The room heaves a collective sigh: The wooden floorboards and walls bend in, out, ever-so-slightly with the winds swirling outside.

And the shatter of broken china echoes throughout the Galleon.

Joe taps her shoulder and murmurs something about a broom, but his words never truly reach her ears. As he is walking toward the kitchen she immediately stands, intent on leaving the room without another sound. Cheeks aflame with embarrassment and frustration, she looks toward the stairs. At this point, sleep is all she desires and tears are poised on her lashes, threatening to fall. She steps forward and hears –

_Crrrrunch._

-the sound of bones.

Muscles rigid, her body is prepared for fight-or-flight: Heartbeat is stuck on one frantic note like an old, broken record player. Those sounds echo so volatile, pressing on the walls of a frantic mind. Somehow she stumbles through the rest of the mess, but it continues.

_Crrunch, crunch._

One shard skitters across the wooden deck, lost to the long, flickering shadows. The darkness envelopes her and her lungs panic, airways constricting as she breaks into a run.

"Ahim?"

Her shins painfully collide with the bottom stair. She cannot control the noise she is creating, the heavy and frantic slamming of her booted feet on the wooden steps. Suddenly she stops, held steadfast by the waist, and though her feet leave solid ground the echoing still reigns.

In one fluid motion, Joe lifts her easily, swinging her tiny body from the ascending stairs to the landing and finally leaning her against the wall. Ahim's thin, pale fingers slap against her ears in a vain attempt to drown out the grotesque song.

"Breathe," he intones. He's not quite sure of the best course of action, but it seems like a good first step. His hands leave her tiny waist to press against the cool wooden wall, and he slides them up to rest on either side of her. After a painful eternity, she begins to breathe normally once more, and her lips begin to form words before she can speak.

"It's not fair." Barely spoken above a whisper, her companion strains to hear. She continues in a broken voice.

"It isn't. I am sick of being useless to those I care about. I am always lagging behind and failing. Why am I here? How could _I _have been the only one left alive? Good people were lost when my home was destroyed; talented, brave people. They weren't useless. They could handle this better and they had so much to offer. All I've proved so far is that . . . I'm not a pirate. I mean, look at me."

She's shaking now, words tinged with utter devastation.

"So . . . that's what this is about?" Joe asks quietly, subdued. He does not dare look her in the eyes.

"It's not fair that I lived."

He wants to tell her she is wrong, but the words stick in this throat. Now, tears are spilling from her lashes, leaving trails on her cheeks. He is too late:

"I couldn't save anybody."

Without warning she ducks under his arm and hurries toward the stairs, ascending them once more. This time he lets her go, waiting for the gentle "click" of a locked bedroom door while he stands in the dark.

Only then does he finally head up the stairs himself, wrapped in pensive silence. He reaches the top but does not move, and stands stock-still as his eyelids fall closed. Inhales, exhales. Inhales, and continues down the hallway past the uncovered portholes, dazzling blue moonlight pouring onto the deck.

Something stops him in his tracks.

His captain leans against the wall, arms folded and an eyebrow raised. An aloof expression graces his face, but the curiosity is unmistakable. Joe's exhale whistles through his nose and his steps resume, pronounced and angry. As he stalks past Marvelous, the captain's eyes are boring into the side of his skull, craving an explanation.

In a fleeting moment, Joe turns his head ever-so-slightly to stare at him over his shoulder. Long hair obscures his face and shadows mask his expression; the captain's eyes glitter with the intensity of an animal not yet sated.

Wind whistles, rattles the floorboards.

The questioner's only answer is stark silence – he watches his crewman stalk into the darkness, long hair whipping out of sight.

_SLAM._


	2. II

Hmm, so I may have fibbed a bit. This ended up slightly longer than I anticipated and I am having problems pruning it, so now there will be another part after this. Cramming the ending would have felt too much like I just attached it, and those scenes do not deserve to be squished. Good news, though, I want this done before Episode 41, so tra la la. Just a note - I never expect the series to be this dark, I just prefer exploring angst and dark themes. I might have to up the rating for the violence but it's good violence, if that is possible. Slight MarveLuka.

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><p><strong>Le Ossa<strong>

**II.**

An overcast afternoon has the crew milling about inside, restless; there has not been a fight in days. Marvelous is sprawled over his chair in a deep sleep, like the lord of a kingdom, his legs dangling over the armrest and fingers brushing the wooden floor. Doc pops in and out of the kitchen, preparing a hearty lunch for his mates while Luka dogs his heels, arms waving as she rants and raves about her malfunctioning Mobirate. Joe is silent in his corner, seemingly intent on his push-ups but every now and then casting a glance at the silent Ahim. Curled in the corner of the sofa, her legs are tucked neatly underneath her, and her tea grows colder with each passing minute. She is uncharacteristically silent.

"I did that, Doc," Luka whines, thumbs jabbing relentlessly at her cellular phone. She sees the double doors swinging in and out, and stomps over to them to follow him back into the kitchen. As she is about to pass through them, Doc emerges holding a tray laden with food; they nearly collide, but he spins around her with a terrified cry as the plates slide. She pivots and follows directly behind him again as he walks to the table.

"You need to look at this, Doc, I'm not kidding; I need this to work!" she demands, finally standing in the middle of the main deck, hands on her hips. Don sighs and holds up one finger, _wait a moment_, and jogs back into the kitchen.

Luka purses her lips, eyes narrowed; Marvelous stirs and lets out a deep snore. She rolls her eyes with gusto but is suddenly distracted.

"Ahim!"

Ahim slowly raises her eyes to Luka's, attempting a sweet smile. "Yes, Luka-san?"

"Your tea. Why aren't you drinking it? Is something wrong?" she inquires. Ahim's smile falters. Without waiting for an answer, the brunette continues. "Come to think of it, you've been quiet since . . ." she trails off, but recovers. "What's wrong, Ahim?"

"Oh, no, there is nothing wrong at all," she responds earnestly. Her arm has not truly recovered but the sling has long been discarded, and she reaches for the teacup.

"You're not being honest," Luka says stoutly.

"There is nothing," Ahim repeats, beginning to shake her head.

Luka folds her arms. "Out with it."

"I cannot—"

"So there _is_ something bothering you?"

"I do not want to concern you." The girl in pink seems distressed and abashed, not daring to be defiant. Joe stops in the middle of a push-up, holding himself up on his arms, silent.

"You need to tell me—"

"Luka-san, please!" Her voice pitches, heavy red flooding her cheeks.

Now Luka begins to raise her voice, and its indignation reaches the rafters with ease: "Ahim!"

"Oy! Woman!" Marvelous had awoken, still sprawled awkwardly on his pirate throne; with a half-grin, he groans as he sits upright and continues, "Your captain is trying to sleep. Quiet."

Doc freezes as he steps into the dangerously silent room, mouth falling open; the doors swing blithely behind him, in and out, in and out on their hinges. Ahim presses her knuckles to her lips as Luka slowly, deliberately turns her head over her shoulder to fix her deadly gaze upon her captain. Marvelous raises an eyebrow. Joe keeps his expression neutral as he looks between them and resumes his push-ups nonchalantly, wondering vaguely if he should intervene.

The brunette sharply pivots, slamming her booted foot on the deck as she snaps, "Just who do you think you are, anyway?"

"Only your captain," Marvelous says lightly, pretending to dust off his sleeves and straighten his collar. "Who would like a good nap sometime this week."

"You've had plenty of time to sleep you lazy—"

"Ah, ah, now," he warns mockingly, grinning from ear to ear and ignoring her murderous glare. "Anyway, that was the only way to get your attention."

"Calling me 'woman'?"

"Well you are one, right? I would hope you knew by now."

"Why don't you say that again to my fist?" she snarls, punching her closed right fist into her left palm.

As they squabble, Ahim takes the opportunity to rise from the sofa; a fleeting glance at the clock and the corners of her mouth fall, leaving her lips in a thin and grim line. Eyes darting from one crewmate to the next, she spreads her fingers to smooth the folds in her dress and mutters quietly, "Oh! I have forgotten to purchase something while I was out earlier."

Only Joe hears: Doc is still transfixed by the crackling, almost tangible tension between his captain and Luka, who are now interrupting one another without consideration. Ahim's steps are steady as she walks to the door, and then she stops in front of Joe, still facing away. He stops his routine again and eyes her up and down: Her chosen footwear is heavier today, thicker boots. Less frills on her dress. What surprises him is her hair, which has been left down, undone and unadorned. No ribbons.

"Joe-san."

And that is all she says.

"Are you leaving, Ahim?" Don calls across the room, and temporarily the squabble is suspended as they all look at her, confused. She does not acknowledge the question, instead staring straight ahead, gaze focused on some invisible point in space – or perhaps time. Her cheeks are still red.

Joe finally rises to his feet. Without speaking she begins to walk away, dark waves of hair bouncing on her shoulders. It beckons him to follow, as if her voice had not been enough. So intriguing are her mannerisms, the unbending posture and her steps, heavier than usual. For no reason at all, it bothers him.

He wordlessly falls into step behind her, trailing her out the door.

"Ehh? What just happened?" Luka spoke to no one in particular.

Marvelous grins for the umpteenth time, raising his arm above his head dramatically; a whirl of the arm and a snap of the wrist with the sound-effect to match:

"Whipped."

* * *

><p>Her pace is quick. Dust rises in clouds and her footsteps are hasty. Jaw set and stern, protruding oddly on one side as if her tongue were clenched between teeth. The Galleon is quickly fading in the distance – they have anchored on the outskirts of a lush forest and a mountain reign, which snakes ominously toward the horizon. Seemingly, she is heading toward the trees, but he does not know why.<p>

His longer legs can keep the pace, though every now and then when the distance grows, he breaks into an easy jog to stay abreast. Her silence is desolate and ominous.

Finally, he relents. "You said you had something you forgot to buy."

No response. A thought crosses his mind: _Malfunctioning mobirates?_

He should check his, but why? It was nothing Doc could not fix.

"Not exactly," she answers, minutes later. Her preoccupation is just one of many behaviors that indicate distress.

Irritated, he noticeably huffs; his strides quicken. Reaching for her shoulder, he intends to speak and see her face –

She halts in her tracks, jerking her barely-healed shoulder out of his grasp. Joe curses under his breath at his lack of foresight, and then firmly grabs her coat; she cries out. "Something's wrong."

"The details . . . are not important, Joe-san." A wavering note creeps into her voice; he wonders if he can glean any answers without upsetting her, for once. When she turns around to face him, he regrets pushing the matter at all.

In her eyes, fires burn. Tumbling towers collapse stone by stone. She wraps her fingers around his arm, the arm that roots her to the spot, and her dark eyes glitter. They play a grotesque film in which she is running, running, and all around lies decimation. Bodies are thrown from topless towers, and the smallest children are ruthlessly crushed beneath an army of one-hundred-one feet. The shrill screams of clashing swords echo; the thundering advance sends rumbling tremors which will forever invade her sleep. Lost in smoke and in despair, she runs for miles and yet never finds a resting place.

She has always known the sound of bones.

Comforting words would be prudent, but he cannot break this moment, not now. He can see the unshed tears she holds back, always, the sorrows of every person of her kingdom. Their stories have been lost to blithe winds – none of them were granted the dignity of tears.

"Talk," he says quietly. "Talk to Luka, talk to someone." _Talk to me._

The silence is almost painful. He feels her begin to pull away, avoiding his eyes completely. She is torn: Her fingers are wound around his sleeve but her limbs are tense, taut, and ready to flee at the slightest provocation. Eyes drifting over her shoulder, she waits poised for something that even Joe cannot see. She recoils; he does not budge.

The forest rumbles quietly. Ominously.

After a moment of silent struggle, she relents and turns to him, her tiny foot stamping in the dust as she says, "When you needed to do something alone, I let you!"

Her outburst is just enough.

She's right, and he knows. He shakes his head irritably, responding with an awkward clearing of the throat. Looking away, he realizes he is being unreasonable. He begins to turn away without letting her see his expression; he is almost embarrassed that it has come to this.

Ahim takes him by the arm, forcing him to turn back around. Raising herself on tiptoes, she studies his face carefully, deliberately, and they are face-to-face and silent. Dark eyes drink him in, a gaunt reflection of fire and failure still burning without end.

And in a second, her lips are against his.

It is a chaste act, and he remembers the pressure leaving almost immediately – just a quick press of the lips that still makes time grind to a ruthless halt. Heat sears through his mouth and dashes across his cheekbones, painting them a brilliant red without remorse. Vision distorted. Air is stolen from his lungs, ripped from his chest and it dissipates into nothing, promptly abandoning him. It is ridiculous, gorgeous. Mind blank and useless, he lurches forward and closes his fingers into a fist, grasping nothing but emptiness.

As if he has stumbled out of a dream, sounds return in one fell swoop. Birds' chirps echo close by and the sound of his breathing is ragged, gasping. He is here, blushing and angry and terribly pathetic while his eyes dart around, searching. In spite of himself he touches his fingers to his lips, feeling like an absolute idiot.

_How did – where – damn it. _

Ahim's dress whips around the trunk of a tree with a _snap, _the crack of a whip in Joe's keen ears. An unintelligible, furious sound vibrates within his throat and eventually tumbles from his lips, and he kicks the ground without rhyme or reason in frustration.

He follows; as if he has a choice?

He has speed and size on her, but she has a decent head start. Her boots are stalwart and thick, pounding over coiling roots of trees and kicking up dirt, dust, and leaves. The trees are closer together now as she continues to fly, a tiny white blur, through the forest of trunks. Despite her weapons swinging from her belt, they feel light, a part of her.

She grasps a low-hanging branch and kicks up her feet, landing upright but still delicately in a crouch. Every muscle frozen, she listens.

A twig snaps.

He is flying as well, still feeling dizzy and furious at his lapse in composure. Some pirate he was, falling apart over a simple kiss. And letting her slip from his grasp to do something dangerous?

Even his mind's voice is deadpan: _Chalk up a win for Joe._

_Thump. Thump. _

He leaps, feet assaulting the tree branches as he travels high above the ground. Tiny leaves are ripped from their stems as he whips through the fragile capillaries of branches that criss-cross, intertwined in his path.

In his peripheral vision, a flash of ivory surfaces then vanishes almost instantly. At the speed he is traveling, it could have been anything. Throwing his weight to the left, he misses the next foothold only to fall to the leaf-strewn ground, catlike, somersaulting a few times before ending up on his feet.

There is a rumble approaching, a force moving toward the forest at a fairly rapid rate. The tiniest pebbles and clumps of arid, hard dirt tap-dance upon withered leaves. Ahim would be running right into an enemy. She is barely healed, and he is still frustrated about her first injury; her dark eyes had communicated unmatched pain and terror. Her body flinching and succumbing to shakes, every limb falling limp in his arms.

Not again.

A barrage of gunshots echoes in his ears, sounding far too close and all too familiar for his liking. Calm birds are ruffled and frightened from their nests, and the sound of swooping wings erupts as they take flight as one entity. Black shadows against the pinks, yellows, and purples of a sky near dusk, they warn others with screeches. His mind is caught in the whirlwind of sounds, but his legs propel him forward in search of the commotion.

In search of her.

The colored lights of sunset bend through the crooked trees, and he feels the rumbling beneath his feet growing stronger, the vibrations more frequent and intense. The ground begins to slope upward and the foliage thins. His arm finds its natural place in the curve of his back as the miniscule hairs on his sword arm stand straight to attention. He is running, running, and as the forest disappears behind him, the ground plateaus. The sky opens.

Ahim is in her fighting stance, the end of her gun smoking. Her other hand holds her small cutlass, but no debris or conflict has graced the blade yet – it shines brilliantly, reflecting the sunlight. She turns her head to look at Joe over her shoulder without expression. She looks vulnerable and petite as she stands at the edge, overlooking a sprawling field; the edge is too sharp and steep to see what lies below. The only way down is a steep slope of arid dirt and dust, and there are no footholds to assist.

"Why did you want me to follow you all this way?" Joe asks quietly, taking slow and careful steps toward her.

She turns to face him, pushing the edge of her sword into the broken ground until it stands straight on its own. She whispers, "Because I trust you."

"Have you been fighting?" he asks brusquely, walking past her to gaze off the edge of the plateau.

His eyes widen as he takes in the standing army, the source of the rumbling and noise. Twenty, fifty, hundreds of little metal soldiers are hiking up the slope, and there is no question where they plan to go.

"They would have attacked us during dinner," she whispers, suddenly at Joe's side. "How cowardly."

His hand is already dialing the crew when Ahim places her hand over the keypad and fixes him with a sorrowful but determined stare. Another revelation occurs, ludicrous and dizzying, and he is shocked enough that he lets her quietly shut the flip-phone and cover his fingers once more.

"Please." Her plead is little more than a faint breath.

He knows that if she has come this far, there is nothing to discuss. Any argument he can formulate loses all rhyme and reason when he stares into her eyes; she is at her wit's end with nightmares and terrors. Running into the worst odds is not her usual plan of attack, but normality has been lost on her for so long now. _No interference _is what her eyes command and he cannot ask her to reconsider. He had not, either. Her desire is to be the last one standing, the last survivor beyond luck. The song in her head must cease.

This is the cruelest dance of déjà vu.

Without pretense he unsheathes his sword, the metal cacophony like violent music to his ears. Without words, he presses it into her hand; it is heavy, but hits harder. She weighs it in her hand, adjusting to her favored reverse grip style, handling it reasonably well despite her weakened shoulder. Pain can never stand in the way of an emotion as potent as fear.

"I don't like this." His voice would almost seem casual, but Ahim hears the frustrated bite in the syllable's close.

Eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, she opens her mouth, perhaps to protest – his eyes dare her to say a word. She seems to reconsider and nods just once before turning away.

"You said you wanted to do this alone, yet your face told me to follow," Joe snaps. He angrily jerks his head toward the advancing enemies, and the edge of his angled hair whips against his lips, where the faintest, glossy tint remains. "Why them, why now?"

Ahim steps to the edge, watching the army push forward, roaring to the heavens in blind hatred and duty.

Again her voice is a faint breath, a flutter, the sigh of a windswept leaf. "I don't know."

She leaps.

Gunshots ring out and cries erupt – her presence sends waves of confusion and chaos rippling through the crowd of soldiers. As she descends, she braces for impact on the steep slope of dirt, her aim precise and deadly as she steadies her shooting arm upon the other.

Skidding, tripping slightly, she reaches flat ground and charges without pretense, a whirlwind of white and weaponry-grace. Only the necessary amount of energy is expended to force them down to the ground. They surround her and cannot be quantified, a blur of silver and blue, and an eruption of clings, clangs, and grinding metal echoes. A strangled cry cuts through the air as one of the Goumin's weapons connects with the hand with the gun, crushing her fingers between unrelenting metal.

Skating down the steep slope, Joe knows he should not be following or watching this. He can barely stand watching her push through one enemy after the other with no one to watch her back. He curses himself for listening and letting her run into her own destruction. Another loud cry of unintelligible emotion reaches his ears. He watches her swing the weapon with all the strength she can muster, and a line of soldiers crumble at the knees. Stepping on them to gain height, she takes another flying leap into a harried group of enemies and swings in reverse grip; scrap metal piles upon more of the same in a stilted, harrowing cadence.

She spins and there are more of them at her back. Kicking backward, she points her gun over her shoulder without bothering to aim, and falls again into a graceful display of martial arts. There is no brute strength, just frighteningly precise punches and twists, well-placed elbows and heels and of course, the extra force embodied in the sword that is not hers.

Unfortunately that boost is short-lived: a weapon comes down on her arm for the second time, forcing the heavy sword down. Pain loosens her grip and it clatters to the ground, immediately kicked out of her reach. Through a curtain of dark, wavy locks, she spies it lying ten feet away and presses her hand into the ground, raising herself up on her knees-

_Crunch_, there goes the song again. A metal boot roughly grinds her fingers into the dirt, stretching and tearing the skin of her knuckles. Seething, her other arm swings around to point the gun at her captor, and its metal face gazes down at her, staring down the barrel. She pulls the trigger.

The metal soldier collapses heavily as shrapnel rains down, catching in her tangled hair. She is already on the move, ignoring her throbbing and stinging knuckles as she flips forward, grabbing the sword when her hands hit the ground. Tucking into a ball, she avoids injury and easily gets to her feet, whirling around to face the onslaught, both weapons in her grip. The mindless army marches over its own fallen brothers, and by now they have located the only threat. No element of surprise can aid her now; she swallows noticeably and adopts her natural fight stance, staring down the rest. Held by her two smallest fingers is her Mobirate. Despite the pain twisting knots around her shoulder joint, her gun arm is straight and her finger, poised on the trigger.

Joe hangs back at the battle's fringes, fingers curled into shaking fists but held at his sides; his restraint is breaking. Of all that he finds wrong with this – the tears in her white dress, the scratches decorating her calves which threaten to bleed – there is something about seeing the singed ends of her hair, grey and frayed, that leaves him guilty.

Quickly, she forces the key into the lock, yelling, "Gokai Change!"

She transforms in front of him, masking her injuries and expressions; he finds it disconcerting. As the light fades his keen eyes search for her, for he can follow her more easily in the bright pink suit, track her movements amid the sea of silver and blue. Already back in the fray, she is little more than a blur spurred on by adrenaline and perhaps, for the first time in her life, anger. The disturbing song of metal on metal is an inescapable din with no end in sight.

Her ruthless aim picks them off, and not one at a time. Every bullet embraces its target with gusto and lands as a crippling blow so when they are down, they stay. Though she is not so fast, her light limbs twist easily away from danger – except one hit can leave her a broken mess. One bullet that misses its mark could result in disaster. She trusts those bullets as if they have lives and lungs of their own; she lets them fly and is already two rounds ahead, four or five soldiers past. Finally, the throng is being thinned. One Goumin connects, nearly yanking her off the ground by a fistful of hair. She flips the sword for a better grip and deftly slides it against her waist, forcing it behind her with a jerk to spear her temporary captor in half. She yanks the weapon forward, delivering a backward kick to the slumping corpse to free her blade.

Shoulder throbbing, she winces for a fraction of a second—

A staff whips Ahim across the face, across her helmet with a loud 'crack' and the sword goes flying as she lands heavily in the dust. On her side, she lies motionless, and Joe's weapon skips across the dust, as a rock would in a pond, and comes to rest at his feet. He lifts it with his boot and tosses it into his ready hand, giving it a satisfying and violent swing as furious red floods his vision. Watching this battle leaves him pumped and energized, furious without an outlet, and he fixes his gaze on her back, willing her to show a sign of life. No movement.

He takes off at a run with his arm finding its place in his back's natural crook. Nearing the last of them, only a handful of lost and raging enemies without a leader, and he is so close he inhales the metallic taste of the war-torn air—

And a bullet whistles within a centimeter of his ear.

"Joe-san!"

He fights the urge to turn around and instead concentrates on remaining still. An impending storm or perhaps the sound of a disturbed apiary, and he stands in the center as the bullets flow around him like smooth liquid, curving around him in slow motion. At least, this is how it seems, but reality falls upon his ears as they find their mark.

Goumin collapse around him, each with a gaping, jagged opening where her deadly shot has ripped them apart. As if she had been practicing, each had landed within the figurative ten ring – a killing shot.

He releases a tightly held breath.

"You're done," he immediately says, turning on his heel. He is taken aback, for she is standing again and though her shoulder is held gingerly, her stare burns through her dark visor.

"There is one more," she responds, breathing heavily.

On cue the swordsman pivots to see one last hulking figure emerging in the still-settling dust. A human form it sorely lacks; crimson and convoluted limbs seem to be cobbled together in a semblance of a biped, but one thing is obvious. This unnamable creature will not easily succumb. The fading dusk casts malformed shadows and in them, Ahim can see the horrid film play again. Crumbling towers and crushed bodies. The sound of bones.

Joe's mind barely registers the gentle brush of her arm.

She stands as tall as she can muster, now with a pistol in each hand. Tiny fingers poised on the triggers and twitching, the monstrous enemy lets out what sounds like its equivalent of a chuckle. Though it carries no weapons, its presence alone chokes the air and the tension spirals out of control. Ahim's chest does not rise nor fall – she cannot breathe, or chooses not to do so.

A step forward and the creature raises an arm, mockingly slow and careless, preparing for a fight it does not believe will last. A low growl escapes:

"Famille."

She goes.

It parries her easily, brushing her off like an irritating gnat. Bullets embed themselves in his armored arms but do not reach his face, or what would be the closest resemblance to it. Again her lithe limbs enable her to avoid being hit directly, but what little strength she still possessed is beginning to drain away, leaving her with the dregs.

Luckily those dregs have a touch of revenge.

"Ahim!" Joe roars. He wants her to step down, relent. Still, he is a soldier and she had laid down the command not to interfere. The moment she had stood in front of him and said his name, she sealed her fate and he was a part of it. Even if it led to death.

All she has to do is say the word.

The clangs echo louder and the hand-to-hand blows come faster, the cacophony of bullets like the unending song of metallic rain. She dives to one side, somersaulting, but not without unloading a hellish barrage into his torso and neck; the jutting ends make a line from the bottom of his ribcage, curving around to halt at the base of the skull. There is a weak spot somewhere that she cannot find, and time is ticking down to mere seconds. Keeping her distance, she parries once more but it quickly delivers a strike to her bad shoulder, forcing her to her knees with a strangled cry.

In one swift movement it has her by the neck, one hand sufficiently enclosing it. Vision swimming and fading to black, she sees the spot to hit.

It rumbles more like a machine than a man, almost the sound of a lagging engine. As the creature lifts her as easily as a rag doll, a sick, deformed chuckle echoes hollowly through its body. In delight.

Joe is on his feet now regardless of his idiotic promises, sprinting toward the fray yet again. Fear rises in his throat as he watches Ahim's limbs stiffen in panic and the continuing lack of oxygen. From far away he can hear himself yelling unintelligible and senseless things, and they hardly matter anyway.

But before he can reach her, everything erupts.

An explosion blinds him so quickly he cannot decipher direction: The air is nothing but dust and a rushing, roaring din. Echoing metal. The sound of tearing and another, terrible rumble. The sounds of Ahim's pistol. He is blind; both she and the creature are drowning in the copper-gold storm. He dares not swing blindly in case she manages to escape or is near him, but sounds have been swallowed in the chaos. Joe strains to listen, to catch any movement or sound or whimper amid the ringing in his ears.

Her scream wrenches the sky apart.


	3. III

I believe I am finally satisfied with this. Depending on your interpretation of 'moments', there may or may not be minuscule MarveLuka, LukaAhim, and JoeMarve in addition to the JoeAhim, but I tend to err on the side of caution when labeling something a 'moment'. Yay tension? After this, I have several drabbles I want to edit and post, as well as another multi-chaptered fiction, likely three or four chapters, "Rum". That's a tentative working title, of course - check my profile for more details.

As always, reviews are appreciated.

Fin.

* * *

><p><strong>Le Ossa<strong>

**III.**

"I swear."

Loud stomps, quick and harried, sound upon the wooden deck. Roughly pushing brunette locks out of her face, she snatches up her sword. Begins her irritated rotations, warming up. It catches the sunset's mocking color rays, reflecting the light and tossing it blithely about the room.

Round and round it goes – _sching,_ _sching_ – with every twirl of the weapon.

"First the Mobirates, now this, Ahim disappearing into thin air, and – Marvelous what the hell are you _doing_?"

Her captain is standing stock-still, eyes watching an ominous plume of smoke swell and billow across the tops of the forest trees. She has the feeling that he can see it regardless of the window – that he has a sense of danger far more keen and sensitive than them all.

He inhales.

She raises her hand in a flash, as if to grab him, but he turns his head only slightly to fix her with a silent stare. As if a talented handler of clay was given free rein to mold her face, the jagged lines of distemper fade, carefully, smoothing themselves into softer ones of disbelief.

Head sways in a tentative 'no'. Remembers the dead man and Ahim's –

_Ahim_ –

"I let her go!"

Doc is out of breath as he takes the stairs two at a time, skidding to a stop in the middle of the room. He opens his mouth.

With a frustrated cry, she brings her arm across her body in a ruthlessly straight cut; extending her elbow the sword is released, and Doc flinches as it spears the couch. The tip embeds itself into the wall behind it, the handle barely wavering from the impact.

Doc is shocked into silence, but instead turns to the mechanical bird in the corner, who is suspiciously quiet and has been so for most of the day.

Now, it quivers and shakes. It knows.

Even the captain turns from his silent vigil to bestow his gaze as the bird releases a high-pitched sob.

* * *

><p>A vague, almost ludicrous thought stirs within his panic: Like a snowstorm.<p>

One of dust, debris, and the lingering scent of death. The copper-gold air thins, fades to a foggy grey, not unlike the indescribable shade of mist. Still with sword drawn and muscles taut, he waits; if cells could halt division and blood could pool, so he would be in a state of preservation. Breathing, that devilish necessity, is irrelevant.

She is not pink anymore, and he can see the result of the assault.

Grey. Crimson. Even her skin is ash. Dark locks tossed with metal shards and bullet casings, she is not the girl he let walk into this senselessly violent brawl. Her knees embrace the ground, kneeling in front of the stooped creature while her arms are lost in the tangled shadow still shrouded in dust. Slowly it peels away, revealing two limbs locked at the elbow and sliced with thin wounds.

Her head is bowed, motionless. Dress ripped and torn like a dance with aggressive tendrils of thorns. Her companion looks for the guns, the weapons, but they are literally swallowed by the innards of the creature. She is inside of it, forearm-deep. Now it is clear that the enemy is bent at the waist, hunched and curled around the gaping wound she has created.

"Ahim!"

She tilts her head toward the noise but does not – or cannot – look up.

One foot slides from beneath her and now lies flat upon the ground, ready to push. An attempt to support her weight. The quietest whimper reaches Joe's ears, but he watches incredulously as she makes it to her feet. Knees bent in slightly and the shoulder wrenched all out of place again. The creature stirs and Joe carefully sidesteps around the scene, now able to see its backside.

Two gun barrels are protruding from between its shoulder blades, still emanating whisper-wisps of smoke. Judging by the projection, its spine must be shattered by the force and angle, metal grinding through several vertebrae. Even on an alien, it must have been an excruciating experience.

He hears a crunching noise which sets him on edge. Completing his careful circling, his eyes widen as Ahim raises her foot and pushes it into the creature's torso, into its cracked armor. She bites her lip.

She yanks, gasps. Kicks harder. Harder.

It is only when Joe grabs her other arm that she manages to wrench her hand and weapon loose: She gains little for her effort but more scratches and pain. The force of the release almost sends her broken body tumbling backward, had Joe not been there. Still clinging to the gun despite her shakes. As one, they both look to the arm still buried in the creature. Hesitantly, he wraps his fingers around her shoulder to keep it steady – he dares not take her tiny forearm in his hands. Sometimes, he swears he could crush it. His other forearm wraps around her waist from behind, and she has no objections. Regardless, she is not in any shape to do so.

"Relax." He knows that must be impossible, given all this. Still, he hopes she tries. Leaning into her, molding, feeling her heartbeat still forcing adrenaline in waves.

No sooner have the words left his lips, a quiet laugh is heard. Raising his head, Joe sees the creature stirring, no, vibrating with the insatiable laughter of a joke known only to those amused. He curses.

There is the sound of skin on metal. He finds the source of the noise, as he catches a glimpse of Ahim adjusting her fingers. Before he can say a word, she brings her arm back and whips the barrel across the creature's face. Once.

The laughter is cut off abruptly, slurring into a groan like a music note gone sour.

Twice.

A distinct crack, the sounds she always remembers which rob her of sleep.

Thrice.

But they shouldn't anymore.

"Enough!"

It is a late command, for the creature collapses and Ahim takes the chance to wrench her arm out. As it lands heavily at her feet, she begins struggle in Joe's arms.

"I am sorry," she whispers. The alien cannot hear, and it lies broken and pathetic in the same sort of heap as the innocent man. The incident feels so long ago, a faint and flickering memory.

She wants to collapse and sleep, but she wants to run and never look back.

At last, her knees give out. Joe lowers her to the ground as the tears begin, kneeling with her as she throws herself forward, chest heaving in shock and despair at her own broken sense of faith. One hand steadies her shoulder which he knows can be fixed a second time. The rest of it, well, it may take time. His other arm still holds her torso to hold her up – now would be the worst time to let her sink.

His fingers are splayed across her heart, smattered with burning tears. His stomach churns at the scent of burnt hair invading his senses; he stares at the ground, avoiding the greyed and soulless ends that threaten him, beckon him.

"Joe-san."

With a trembling hand, she places her fingers over his. They hold her heart together, if mere care can ever accomplish such a thing.

"Let's go," he responds. His tone is a bit brusque, but not unkind. It is all he can do to not falter at the cuts, the blood. "You're a mess."

Before she has the chance to try, he lifts her to her feet; he supports her waist while her shoulder slumps noticeably. She is clinging, fingers twisted in his jacket. He may never forgive himself.

They limp along in silence. Joe takes a different route toward the Galleon to avoid the steep slope, instead opting for a gentle, curving path bypassing the forest. The dusk tucks in the curve of the horizon with a quilt of crimsons, oranges, purples and faint budding stars. Every now and then she has to stop and gasp, breathing shallow.

He would carry her, but she does not let him.

It happens again as they reach the crest of a hill. Tears spring to her eyes and the sound of her whimper kicks Joe in the chest without remorse. Suddenly, she is dead weight and slipping from his grasp.

"Are you all right?" he asks, but her lids have already fallen closed. He quickly dips to swing his arm behind her knees and lift her before she completely falls unconscious. Cursing, he shifts her body against his chest and quells the urge to flounder and panic.

That feeling increases tenfold as he sees his crew mates hiking up the hill, weapons in hand.

There is no escape, no time. They see him and begin to sprint, expressions falling into ranging degrees of confusion and shock as they come closer.

"Joe!" Doc exclaims. He is roughly shoved away by Luka, who stands toe-to-toe with the swordsman. Though she only reaches his chin, anger is radiating off her body in waves; it could level buildings. Thrusting her sword into the ground, her stare is murderous, and it flickers down to Ahim.

"Joe," she snaps. Without waiting for any response, her fierce gaze softens as pushes the bangs off Ahim's forehead. Looking down once more, Luka's eyes rake over the girl's scratches and cuts.

Luka's arms shoot out and she shoves him at the shoulders, hard. Doc yells, "Luka!" but she ignores him, hands curled into fists as she watches Joe stand his ground, barely moving as not to disturb the girl in his arms.

"What did you _do_?" she demands, consonants cutting the air and reaching his ears, ringing deadly.

"They must have run into the enemy already while they were out, Luka. Don't get so worked up," Doc admonishes. She growls. "I mean, please don't." Doc looks expectantly at Joe as if it would be confirmed immediately, but the stoic and pained expression which stays silent is not a good sign.

Now Luka yanks the collar of Joe's jacket, hissing, "You don't have a scratch on you!"

Finally, Marvelous strides up. He has taken his time reaching the reunion and surprisingly, he is expressionless. As Luka fills her lungs with air, ready to berate the first mate, the Captain gently shoves her aside.

They communicate without words. What little Joe will reveal, that is. He has suspected that his captain has known all along, her motives and his lack of resistance. There are nights he has no real excuses for wandering amongst the cabins, or polishing the pistols she had already cleaned hours prior. Times in which he jumps all too quickly to snatch his coat from the rack – and hers, too, so they can explore whatever city in which they parked. When he taps on her door in the wake of an impending storm, or sometimes immediately after he awakes. He wonders, in some corner in the recesses of his guilty mind, if they have both fallen into the same twisted, gorgeous dance of charm.

Marvelous places his fingers over a particularly deep gash in her pale forearm; he holds it for a second and only Joe can see the concern that shakes his core. Removes them – they come away with viscid blood. Raising his eyes to the first mate, there is an almost feral flash of anger, so minute and fleeting that likely no one else would have realized. Wiping the fluid on his shirt, Marvelous quirks his head slightly and without warning, curls his fingers into a fist and passes them across Joe's lips.

It is almost a quiet slap, just the vague sound of skin on skin. His first mate does not move and there is no reason to, considering it is no more than a light push. Doc noticeably gulps in the tense silence.

Now, the captain's fingers come away with the faint tint of pink lip gloss. And this, he does not wipe away.

"Go," he says, almost jauntily. "She's in bad shape, Joe."

Joe twitches at the threatening sound of his own name. Marvelous brushes past him while drawing his gun, his other hand clapping him on the shoulder with gusto. One more eyelock: he is not pleased, though not angry nor indicative of any other truer emotion than curiosity. Always, he is too inquisitive for his own good.

Luka leaves Joe with one last poisonous glare before also brushing past him. Swinging her weapon 'round and 'round, she calls back, "You had better take care of her to my standard."

Doc begins to run after them, but skids to a stop and comes back to look at Ahim. She still does not stir, breathing lagging and shallow. Too embarrassed and proper to touch her, even to touch her arm, he steps back, inclines his head, and nods. "We'll take care of the Zangyack. We'll be back to help you soon."

His team's footsteps are receding in the distance, and Joe exhales heavily, feeling as though he has not breathed for minutes on end.

"Please forgive me."

Her voice makes him jump.

"I just . . . cannot explain my reasons to them right now. I will in time. I also hoped staying quiet would keep you from being questioned," she whispers; she is losing her voice.

Joe resumes walking, adjusting his grip. He sees the shadow of their home throwing the forest into darkness. "It's fine. I didn't know what to say."

"No matter if you explained it correctly, they would be frustrated. I will handle it," she responds, her head swaying. It falls against his chest.

Her energy is fading, and he knows how rude it is to ask her another question. "The Mobirates . . ."

Ahim hesitates. Then, "Nav'i agreed to disable them, but eventually gave in. I expected that. It was an awful thing to ask."

Because Ahim treats the bird like a pet and not a machine.

"But since that day the man died, I have not been able to sleep. The nightmares I already had would worsen. When Luka told me he had . . . died . . . I could not stand it. I have never felt so angry or vengeful. That poor man with a family and children was caught in the crossfire of our fight," she continues. "I had a dangerous feeling. I could not tell you what it was, but something very intense and it needed to be released. I felt that the only way I could handle it was to take matters into my own hands. You would let me fight, and that is why I trusted you."

"Why me?"

Ahim giggles faintly, and he feels it against his chest. "Because I let you, so long ago."

After a moment of contemplation, Joe gruffly admonishes, "Fair enough. But don't do anything that reckless again."

"I cannot promise that."

He can feel coarse, burnt hair weaving around his fingers. The ropes are waiting for them, ready and hanging, and he suspects the captain had already sent the signal.

"I can hold on," Ahim begins tentatively, but the damage done to her arms says otherwise, and Joe tightens his grip on her, which speaks volumes.

"I'm not listening to your order this time," he says, hoisting her onto his hip to cradle her with one muscled arm. Carefully taking her arm, he places it around his neck and tugs on the rope. With a short leap he is settled comfortably as she lets out a little cry, wrapping her legs around him so tightly he begins to lose circulation. They begin to rise. He smirks.

They swing back and forth recklessly, as they often do around one another. A trip that normally takes seconds seems to stretch into minutes and hours of colorful dusk. Though she still holds tightly, her eyes gaze to a place far beyond the lit horizon. They are alone, clinging to a flimsy rope in an unknown city, on a planet that has perhaps become more of a home than any place else in space. Two figures, two shadows silhouetted against a sunset that is not visible from any other precipice or height. Up here, even the swordsman's tied hair is tossed relentlessly.

Silence blankets the land. Time suspends. Joe's last question is little more than a whisper in her hair, lost to the rolling lands spread out far beyond the eye's gaze.

"Why did you – do that?"

Ahim knows without having to clarify; she knows he has difficulty even asking. The corners of her mouth turn up, and she shakes her head slightly. Every limb wrapped around him tightens as her light sigh is lost to the winds of the plains. Their slight blushes are shrouded by the disappearing sunlight.

"I do not know."

With one last wisp of strength, her lips press against his chin, the most of him she can reach.

"But . . . let us find out, Joe-san."


End file.
